


Evermore Lighter

by DreamingPagan



Series: Evermore Lighter [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Flinthamilton Big Bang 2019 entry, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Canon, Trauma Recovery, Voyeurism, fluff with a plot, very brief Bethlem mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 12:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18965362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: The world has taken a lot away from Thomas. Piece by piece, he and James begin to take it back.





	Evermore Lighter

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to the wonderful @teassassins for agreeing to work with me for this Big Bang! Their artblog is on tumblr, teassassins.tumblr.com, and I recommend everyone go check out their wonderful art! 
> 
> Thanks also to theonenamedafterahat/@jamesflintmcgrawhamilton for acting as beta for this piece, and to Sirenswhisper for being my ass-kicker and best cheerleader. I couldn't have finished on time without either of you!

Thomas wonders, sometimes, if his words left him in Bethlem, or in Oglethorpe’s living hell. He wonders, too, whether it matters where it happened, and if he will ever, ever again be able to audibly tell James what he so badly needs to hear right here, right now, while ash flies around them and the fields smoke.

“Thomas,” James says urgently, over the roar of the flames and the sounds of gunfire, “we need to leave. The guards from the eastern wall are leaving their posts, we have to run -”

He wants so badly to tell James in this moment how much he loves him, and he cannot - not the way he wishes, so he kisses him soundly through the soot and dirt streaking his face instead and they run. And later - later when he has washed the muck from his skin, when he has gently scrubbed James clean as well with the first hot, soapy water Thomas has encountered in a very long time - when he has allowed James to kiss away the tears of happiness that spill down his cheeks - 

Then he will weep again, because he is free, rescued at last, safe, and clean, and he cannot tell James how wonderful it is to be a slave no longer. 

“It’s alright,” James reassures him, seeing the signs of Thomas’ distress, and reading the restless fluttering of Thomas’ hands the way he has learnt to do over the past several months. 

“Thomas - it’s alright,” he repeats, and he does not hold Thomas’ hands to keep him from signing - he does not become exasperated, does not lash out the way so many of Thomas’ guards have done over the years. His touch is gentle - careful, almost, and then his hands move, and Thomas begins to cry again when he realizes that James is attempting, really truly attempting to sign to him as well. He’s safe - and still he cannot force his hands to do what he wishes, to say what it is he wants, even if James is unlikely to understand the gestures just yet, and it does not matter because James has realized how to speak to Thomas in a way that makes him feel like he is somehow less broken. 

It is two months before Thomas realizes that he can speak with his hands to his heart’s content and no one will hit him and force him to go back to work, silent and miserable. It is a further two months before he begins to branch out, inventing signs that do not involve the two fingers that do not bend as they should anymore. He has not had so much leisure to think on this, or anyone to sign _to_ , since his voice began to fail him, and it is a relief that now he can speak again at least in this way.

It is not enough. 

He wants so badly to say James’ name, at least, and he tries. He tries so very hard, the night after they escape. He guides James’ hands to his waist and his love’s lips to his own and he mouths his gratitude and adoration into James’ skin over and over again all that night as they hold each other. Try as he might, though -

He cannot make a sound, and in all the nights that follow, he tries, and tries, and he weeps so often that surely - surely God must have pity on his poor, mute tongue. He _must_.

James holds him, and teaches him the sign language formerly used by a man named Joji to supplement Thomas’ own cobbled together set of gestures, and gradually Thomas stops striving so hard. There are other ways to communicate besides his voice - hands and paper and ink that he has nearly forgotten exists and a single raising of his eyebrow, sometimes, or a mouthed phrase that conveys as much as a voice could. Still - it is not the same, it is not what he _wants,_ this is not _him -_ they have already taken so _much_ , damn them, and still there is this one thing more that the bastards who took him must have.

“Here,” James offers one night. “I’ve made us tea.”

He sits down across from Thomas - and just for a moment, Thomas feels frustration well up within him, hot and sudden and well nigh untameable.

James is always across, never beside, now. It is a sweet gesture, born of the desire to see Thomas’ face, and read his hand motions accurately. His face is open, the look in his eyes fond - and he is across the room because of Thomas’ voice troubles, and it is fucking _unbearable_.

He lowers the book he is reading - gently, because having books is still a small miracle, but there is no denying the way that his hands clench, or the lump in his throat. He clears it - and James frowns.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

 Thomas shakes his head.

  _Nothing,_ he signs, and James lifts an eyebrow.

 “Nothing?” he asks, repeating the gesture.

There is silence between them for a moment, and then Thomas gives in. 

 _Sit next to me,_ he signs, _please?_  

James stands. 

“Like this?” he asks. He sits down again - and Thomas lets out an oof, because his partner has chosen to sit on Thomas’ lap instead of next to him and why did he never think of this as a solution? 

“Hello there,” James says, lips turned upward in a grin, and Thomas rolls his eyes.

“You’re incorrigible,” he mouths, and James grins.

“Thank you,” he answers, and settles in further. He wraps an arm around Thomas’ shoulders, and then lowers his head to bump his forehead against Thomas’s gently. They sit like that for a moment, just breathing together, with Thomas’ hands clasped about James’ waist. 

“What’s this about?” James asks finally. Thomas does not look up - not immediately because it is so stupid, this longing for something he cannot have. He should not be petulant about it, but the ache is still there in his chest, and now James is touching his bearded chin, bringing his gaze up to meet his lover’s. 

“I want my voice back,” he mouths finally, and ducks his head again, only to have James slide from his lap, and then pull him into a proper embrace.

“It will return,” James reassures him once again, voice rough. “You won’t be mute forever, and if you are, it won’t matter to me. I’ll still -”

Thomas pulls away.

 _It didn’t matter to them, either,_ he signs, hands moving too fast, snarling even if only with his fingers. He turns away. He knows that is not how James means it - not at all, but with sorrow comes anger at the ones who did this to him, and he is angry, he realizes. He hasn’t experienced the emotion in a long time, but here, safe with James and still unable to use his bloody tongue for the purpose God intended, he is furious.

James has risen, in the time it has taken Thomas to go from disconsolate to fury-struck, and now he places a sheet of paper, a quill, and the pot of ink that he has dubbed Thomas Blue on the sofa. Thomas does not bother to move it to the table - the paper is thick enough, and he is still a careful writer, even if so much else about him has been mangled in the past ten years.

 _ **“They didn’t even care when I went silent,”**  _he writes. **_“They were all so_ _fucking_ _happy that I’d stopped arguing with them that they didn’t care if I didn’t say anything at all, they wanted a -_ _thing_ _instead of a person. They won, and now they’re winning all over again and it_ _hurts_ _, James, every time I open my mouth to speak and I_ _can’t_ _.”_**

He stops, and shoves the paper toward his husband, and clings to him like a limpet, hands curling into James’ shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” Thomas mouths against his shoulder. He mouths it over and over again, and James simply holds him, stroking his back and occasionally cupping the back of his head while Thomas regains some measure of equilibrium. At last, he pulls away again.

“I’m sorry,” he mouths once more, and James shakes his head.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he answers. “And they haven’t won.”

 _They wanted my silence. They’ve gotten it,_ Thomas signs, and James raises an eyebrow. He twists, and gestures toward Thomas’ writing desk.

There is a slight draft coming under the door, and with a bit of chagrin, Thomas notices that several of the pages of his latest treatise against slavery have drifted to the ground. He’ll have to pick them up before -

Oh.

“Silence,” James says skeptically, and Thomas cannot help it - the corners of his mouth turn upward, and he lets out a short huff of laughter. James is right - of course he’s right, even if Thomas is still frustrated.

 _Perhaps not,_ he signs finally, and James raises his hands, and takes Thomas’ face between them, and meets his gaze squarely.

“Your voice will return,” he says quietly. “You’re not a man who gives up. If it doesn’t, though - if I never hear you speak another word -”

He takes a deep breath, and then shakes his head, as if to dismiss the pain of such a thought.

“You will still be Thomas Hamilton,” he says finally, and kisses Thomas’ forehead. “We’ll find ways to make the world hear what you have to say.”

**Five Hours Later:**

Perhaps that is all Thomas has needed to hear, all this time.

The dream was terrible. The waking is almost worse - he is disoriented, and his throat hurts, and-

“Thomas?”

It is six months, fifteen days, and six hours after the day they were reunited and Thomas stares at James. James stares at Thomas in return, and in the dark they both process the fact that Thomas has just screamed James’ name in fright as he woke from a nightmare.

“Are you alright?” James asks, face alight with hope and Thomas nods - instinctively, habit taking over. He nods -

And then stops. He opens his mouth - tries again -

And what emerges is a croak, but it is _sound,_ glorious, horrifyingly rusty _sound._

“James,” he manages to say, and then he is in his husband’s arms, and he can speak again - he can really, truly speak, and he is going to do it over, and over, and over again the moment that he stops audibly sobbing for joy.

“Say something else,” James encourages. “Anything, anything at all.”

“I love you. What - what the hell was in that tea you made us before bed?”

It is half spoken, half signed, still a mess, but for the first time, Thomas thinks -

Maybe, just maybe, he is going to be alright again.

They talk long into the night.

**Chapter Two:**

Thomas has not been free from Oglethorpe’s clutches for twenty four hours yet when he first sees himself in a mirror.

It’s… a shock, to say the least. He has not looked at himself truly in - well, ten years, now that he thinks about it. There had been no mirrors in Bethlem - no glass to smash, else he might have done so for reasons that don’t bear contemplating now. And once he had been moved, there had been only puddles of water, or the wash basin in the morning, hardly ideal surfaces from which to contemplate his appearance even had he had time. He had a vague notion that the beard the plantation barber had left him with was a scruffy, unsightly looking thing but there had been no recourse. No one possessed a pair of scissors, nor could they take the time to do the thing properly and shave him, even if he could have borne it.

 He looks at the mirror now. James is asleep behind him and for a moment, Thomas focuses on the sight of his lover, stretched out on the bed. He’s done as he threatened - he’s stripped entirely, getting the rough cotton garments foisted upon them both away from his skin, and he’s now curled up beneath the sheets. James looks happy, Thomas thinks fondly - he is sleeping at last in a real bed, clean and safe - the way Thomas should be, if he could just clear this last barrier.

He can avoid it no longer. He stops ignoring his own reflection.

It’s not… so bad, he thinks, somewhere in the part of his mind that inhabited Bethlem for too long and the plantation for longer. He’s not Lord Thomas Hamilton, Viscount Ashebourne - a long way from it, but -

It could be worse. His face is unscarred, at least, and his eyes are -

He closes them for a moment, and tries to breathe. He may as well stop lying to himself - the mirror certainly isn’t capable of being kind.

His eyes are harder than they had ever been in London. His skin is weathered like James’, and his hair is the wrong length. And the worst affront - the worst affront is the _beard_ that seems to sum up his entire ordeal in one horrible, ill-kempt adornment to his face that the man he’d been in London never would have countenanced.

He does not know this stranger in the mirror. The thought hurts - more than he would have credited. He has known it for years and yet - it is different, somehow, seeing as well. He is changed - irreparably, perhaps. Roughened. Coarsened.

Perhaps if he shaves, he might know himself again.

He takes a deep breath, and runs a hand over the beard that is every bit as scraggly as he had feared, then tries to imagine it gone. If he can change this one thing, perhaps the rest will not seem so bad. He wants it gone - he has wanted it gone for years, and yet -

“Thomas?” James asks a moment later, when Thomas has sat down on the bed - the real, actual bed, and when he is well again, he will take the time to appreciate the soft mattress beneath him, but not right now. Thomas does not answer - merely shakes his head, water droplets flying from his now trimmed but still present beard as he does so. He clings to James, and tries not to see and hear and smell Bedlam until the water dries and he can breathe again.

...

It is two years since they have escaped Oglethorpe’s farm, and Thomas is staring in wonder at the half-full bucket of water he has just brought up from the well and managed to spill all over himself.

It is not usually his chore to go for water. Normally James - conscientious and aware of Thomas’ difficulties with water - is the one to pull the water from the well, while Thomas handles things that do not carry the distinct risk of distressing him beyond the ability to function. Today, though, he is restless. James has gone into town, and Thomas has sent their only servant home for the day out of a desire to feel unmonitored. That, however, means that someone must still bring in the water to cook with later tonight, and in the process of making himself useful -

Well. He is wiping droplets from his face, and staring at the bucket from his position in front of the well, and he is _not_ hyperventilating. The sun is shining on him, the day is beautiful - and Thomas is wet from the chest up and _not panicking._

He is… cool. Wonderfully, blessedly cool now where moments before he had been cursing the heat of the day. Most importantly of all, though, he is grinning, suddenly elated, because if he is already wet - already soaked and not minding it -

Surely he can become moreso, if only long enough to remove the last vestige of his decade-long captivity. He wastes no time in fetching James’ shaving gear, and in a trice he begins working with their scissors to remove the majority of the dead animal adorning his face. He is down to stubble, finally, and it has been long and long since he attempted to shave himself, but he thinks he recalls how to do it from that long ago day when he’d learned. He lathers his face - gingerly at first, with bated breath - and still there is no panic. He can feel his breath catch, momentarily, just at first - can feel the flutter of unease, but he waits, and then continues when it has died down. The clothing sticking against his torso helps, somehow - they had never allowed him to retain any measure of decency in Bethlem but here, he has the comfort of knowing himself still covered by a dark blue shirt and brown trousers. He checks his hands - they are shaking, just a bit, and he takes a deep breath.

He can do this. He raises James’ razor to his face and lays it against his skin.

Scrape.

He does not quite recall the next five minutes, but he registers it when James returns and gently, slowly takes the razor from his hands. Thomas has managed to spill the water - he realizes that much, and he is not quite sure how he got to the ground, but he is there - breathing too hard still, and shaking like a leaf with his knees up against his chest and -

He suddenly realizes the picture that must have met James upon his return, and hot embarrassment floods through him.

“Thomas - breathe. You’re here, with me,” James says, and there is a hint of terror in his voice, just the edge of it. He has dropped something by the door - and Thomas very much hopes there was nothing fragile in the bundles. _Damn_ it all -

“It’s not - what it looks like,” he manages to say. “I wasn’t -”

He gestures to the razor.

James gives a sigh of relief.

“I’d pieced that much together,” he answers, and slides down to sit next to Thomas. “Would you like to explain what you _were_ doing?”

There is only a mild reproach in his tone, but Thomas still winces.

“I - got wet,” he answers, and James nods.

“You did,” he agrees.

“No, I mean - I got wet to start with.”

He explains, halting at first. His hands flutter through the first part of it, voice leaving him for parts unknown once more, at least for a few moments. It’s…

Ye Gods, he’s embarrassed. And angry. The combination of those things brings back the days when he’d been largely unable to speak, and -

This is not Bethlem. This is not the plantation, and James is not here to humiliate or belittle him. It takes him a few moments to gather himself again, and convince his voice that he can use it still, and when he does, he cannot help but sound as frustrated as he feels.

“It’s the _sound_ ,” he says at last, after telling James the entire story, “At least - I think it is. I’m not certain - but I heard it and I -”

He gestures vaguely, helplessly. He’d heard the sound of razor on skin and been cold from the wet shirt clinging to him and -

And James is staring at him.

“So,” he says slowly, “you got wet - and you didn’t panic then?”

He waits, patiently, for Thomas to process that thought.

“No, I didn’t,” he answers. “I was a bit unnerved but - I was alright until -”

 _He’d been alright._ The realization hits him anew, and he looks at James with large, hopeful eyes.

He’d been alright until he’d gotten cold. Until he’d both been cold _and_ tried to shave and perhaps - perhaps it is the combination, not one or the other?

“Do you think I might try having a proper bath soon?” he asks. This may not be impossible after all - if he does it right, if he is smart about it -

James smiles.

“We’ll try it,” he promises. “And, if you’ll allow me to make a suggestion - I may have a solution for your shaving problem, if the sound is all that’s bothering you.”

Wax, Thomas recalls, worked for Odysseus, and half an hour later, it has worked for him too - wax, and a basin of _hot_ water. He stares into the mirror, and then looks to James and slowly, half-disbelievingly, he raises a hand to his smooth, bare jaw.

 

“It worked,” he whispers. It has been so very long a wait, but -

For the first time in a dozen years, Thomas knows his own reflection, and he could cry from the sight alone. It is him in the mirror - him the way that he thinks of himself in his own head, and yes, there are a few extra lines but any man might have those. His hair has grown out, too, from the rough cut they had given him, and he looks -

Good, again, for the first time. He smiles experimentally and then truly, and laughs - surprised and elated and joyous and then turns away from the mirror, away from the sight of his restored looks, to kiss his husband firmly.

“Thank you,” he tells James, and then continues to kiss him. He can feel James’ beard against his face, with no barrier, and it is _wonderful_ \- scratchy in all the right places and yet soft, just as Thomas had known it would be. It is right - it is as it should be, and Thomas leans into the kiss, chases James’ tongue with his own.

“You’ve always been beautiful,” James murmurs against his lips.

“I’ll settle,” Thomas says in between kisses, “for nothing less than breathtaking.”

He can’t help but laugh as James proceeds to show him just how breathless they both can be.

**Chapter Three:**

It has been - a very long time since Thomas has touched himself with an audience.

They’d used to do it, back in London. Miranda and later James had both taken pleasure in watching Thomas - simply watching, while he found his pleasure with his own hands. He remembered it well. Soft sheets against his bare backside. One hand rubbing its way down his front, cupping his arse, pinching a nipple gently -

Thomas looks down at himself now, splayed out across the bed, and sighs.

“James,” he says, “I’m going to find it very difficult to do this if you persist in not getting undressed. The lighting is fine - it couldn’t possibly get any warmer or brighter in this room.”

James gives him a sheepish look from behind the strands of red hair that are hanging in his face. Thomas had requested that - if he’s going to make a spectacle of himself, then James McGraw is most certainly going to allow him the simple pleasure of seeing his long, beautiful hair hanging loose, ready for Thomas to touch when he’s -

Well. When he’s done what they set out to do when James had rather hesitatingly made the suggestion this morning.

He muses on the notion as James finally begins to shuck off his clothing. It’s not transgressive, really - not shocking. They’ve been free for some time now - started to come back to themselves, to reclaim old habits and invent new ones, and it’s hardly surprising that James had thought of this. Still - it had quite nearly taken Thomas’ breath away when James had expressed his wish. It had seemed - daring. Exciting.

Terrifying in its simple defiance.

He still hesitated at first, because eyes on him still feel - wrong. It is not as if the watchers in Bethlem had ever seen _that_ , though, and -

Thomas is not on display for the general public anymore. He is not being watched for disobedience of any man’s laws. He is free, and he may do this, if he so chooses.

His body belongs to himself again, and he has the sudden, wild urge to be reckless with it once more at James’ request. It has been so long - long enough that after a moment, he had kissed his husband, and forced himself to take a deep breath, and begun to take off his clothing as he towed James toward the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, they are here, in their room, and Thomas is attempting to stop feeling every inch of his own exposed skin - and trying to hang onto the sensation at the same time.

He allows one hand to stroke down his side. There are scars there, from Bethlem and other places, and he cannot help but shudder to feel them with his own hands. It is - different, somehow, when James is touching him. Comforting. Soothing. His hands -

His hands are sensitive too, and the feeling of one of them rising to pinch one nipple makes his breath catch.

“Thomas?” James asks softly. “Are you alright?”

He closes his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he answers after a moment. He strokes a hand over his side again, determined now. The scars feel - odd, against his fingertips. Not distressing, not anymore. They are there - raised and different in texture and proof that Thomas is very much alive, despite attempts to render him otherwise. He is alive, and this is his skin, and his fingertips trailing against it feel -

He feels a shiver go down his spine, and his breath catches again.

“That’s right,” James says softly, approvingly. “You’re doing well. Keep going.”

“You can keep talking,” he tells James, eyes half-lidded, as he allows his hands to wander over himself. “I’d like to hear you.”  The words are a breathy murmur - it is all he can manage, now, with every inch of him tingling, body starting to come alive, seemingly.

He can feel his prick starting to stir. It’s a slow, lazy process at first - heat unfurling in his belly to match the shiver that’s just gone through him, and the hand that is not dancing over the flat plane of his stomach clenching in the sheets, just a fraction. He lets himself focus on the fabric of the sheets for a moment - smooth and soft and so different in temperature to the bits that are touching his bare body. They’re soft - and he can just about feel the edge of the sheet with his toes, which are also bare and curling as he squeezes his eyes shut -

James’ voice pulls him back again.

“Thomas,” he says softly.

Thomas does not open his eyes. His hand has stopped just short of his prick, and he’s not certain why except -

“”I… give me permission,” he asks after a wretched, gut-wrenching moment, and he can feel James move closer. It’s not as if he’s afraid - not really, not anymore, but he has to - someone has to -

“No,” James breathes in his ear, and Thomas’ eyes fly open, surprise jerking him back from the edge and oh -

Yes, that would have been a bad idea, wouldn’t it?

He looks at James, and starts to open his mouth.

“James, I -” he starts, and James takes the hand that Thomas has balled in the sheets. He caresses Thomas’ work-roughened knuckles, and kisses every one.

“It’s alright,” he says softly, and Thomas can feel tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

“I’m not - who I was, I’m not _what_ I was, they took me and made me not my own -”

The words are a babble, and there is a roaring sound in his ears, and then -

James’ hand closes around his own. He kisses the bridge of Thomas’ nose, and cups his face.

He moves the hand that he is holding, the one that is shaking so badly, closer to Thomas’ prick.

“Do you want to touch yourself?” James’ voice asks, and Thomas nods, frantically, desperately, because he does - he wants to belong to himself again, he wants to _feel_ again.

James nods, and takes Thomas’ hand, fingers still entwined with James’, and closes it around Thomas’ half-hard cock.

Everything goes still for a moment, and Thomas forgets to breathe.

“I’m going to let go in a second,” James promises, voice low and soft. “But just for now - for this moment alone - how do you feel?”

Thomas - feels good. The hand that’s touching him is his own, and the eyes that are on him are James’, and he is - he is -

“Oh,” he says, suddenly breathless. _“Oh.”_

James grins, and his cock jumps in his hand. He is entirely hard now, in his own hand, because James looks at him with nothing but love from about two inches above Thomas’ face, and their hands are moving, gently, up and down, up and down, with a twist over the tip of his cock exactly the way Thomas likes.

James withdraws, and Thomas lets out a shaking breath that is nonetheless steadying. He is touching himself, and being watched, and it is _right_ that it is so. It is right -  

And James is so very beautiful, sitting there next to him. His touch is warm where his hand rests on Thomas’ belly, and has anything ever been more wonderful, more absolutely breathtakingly simple?

“Kiss me,” Thomas breathes. “Come over here and kiss me, I need - your mouth, I need to taste you -”

His hand moves on his prick, and he lets out a keen that is soon swallowed as James’ lips touch his. His other hand is moving over his nipple in slow, firm circles, and if he concentrates he can just about imagine that it is James’ fingers on him -

His toes curl, and his hips jerk upward, and James smiles against Thomas’ mouth as he comes, breath ragged and chest heaving. He is washed away in a wave of pleasure, and when he comes back down, he laughs against his husband’s shoulder, and pulls him in for another kiss.

“Your turn next,” he breathes, and James gives a breathless chuckle as he rolls over onto the bed to begin putting on his own display.

**Chapter Four:**

Their hard-won, recuperative peace comes to an end with a letter and a visit.

It starts out as a beautiful morning. The sun is shining, the birds sing, there is a faint breeze that is not enough to bring the stink of the tannery from the west. All in all, a perfect day - which is why Thomas is on his way home after a ramble out of the house, having gone further this time than he has attempted in some time. His palms are clammy, and there is a knot in the pit of his stomach, but he has gone - he has been on a walk, and James will be proud of him, he tells himself. He will be happy to know that Thomas has finally, finally begun real work toward the goal of making his own decisions again, including when to leave the house and for how long. He slows his pace, and forces himself to take a deep breath -

And that is why, when Daniel Hamilton approaches the house, Thomas does not have the luxury of hiding behind the curtains until he goes away. He is caught out in the open - standing in the street, in broad daylight, gaping at his younger brother while Daniel does the same in return.

“Thomas?” he whispers, and Thomas -

Thomas feels his stomach drop into his boots, and wonders if he can actually turn around and pretend that he has not heard a thing. He imagines not - not by the look on Daniel’s face, and if he were going to deny being who he is, the moment would have been several moments ago.

“Thomas?” Daniel repeats, and Thomas takes a deep breath, and another, and then opens his mouth to speak.

“Daniel,” he sighs, and then he turns toward the house, where the door has just opened. “James,” he calls, “please put the kettle on - we have company.”

He is going to be ill, Thomas thinks distantly, once he has managed to call for James - once he has managed to get into the house, bringing Daniel along with him perforce. He is surely going to vomit, right here, on their lovely hardwood floor, and he is not certain if it is nerves or shock but it is one of them. He leans against the doorway to their kitchen, and attempts to breathe evenly while James handles - handles -

He opens his eyes, and breathes deep, and tries very, very hard to focus on his youngest brother’s face, because his voice sounds far, far too much like their father’s for comfort and that is not his fault - not in the slightest, any more than Thomas can help that his own mannerisms had used to resemble Alfred’s from time to time. The younger Hamilton’s face, at least, bears no resemblance - although his formerly sandy blond hair has turned a darker shade of the same since last Thomas saw him and he’s grown to a man’s height and breadth. Of a height, perhaps, with Thomas - it is difficult to be certain when Daniel is sitting down and Thomas is barely managing to hold himself up against a doorframe.

“Daniel,” he says at last, “what the _hell_ are you doing here in Philadelphia?”

His brother stares back at him, shock still writ large in his eyes.

“I _live_ here,” the younger Hamilton answers, “as do you, apparently. I’d been told but - My God, Thomas - we all thought you had _died_ . Father told us - Father’s _executor_ told us -”

Daniel cuts himself off, and continues to gape, and James makes a valiant effort not to snarl, because it is not Daniel’s fault that Alfred Hamilton had been determined to wipe his eldest son from memory. He looks to Thomas, silently questioning.

 _How do you want to handle this?_ James asks in a flick of sign language

Their house here is pleasant, Thomas thinks with something approaching desperation. Their bed is soft, their living comfortable - he does not want to have to pick up and move again, and yet his youngest brother’s presence here could mean all of that. Depending on how much Daniel knows already - and how much can they expect to hide from him, if he does the unimaginable and decides that Thomas is still his family - still his brother -?

Thomas sits down, and James reaches out to touch his shoulder, only to withdraw it after a moment - too long, still, it has been too long, and Daniel is watching them.

“Who told you we were here?” James asks. The words are a rumble - a hint of thunder far off, not the full-grown fury of Captain James Flint, and yet Thomas’ brother still seems to hear the threat of the storm in James’ question. He swallows hard.

“I received a letter,” he answers. “It was delivered this morning - I say delivered, it was handed off, really, to my valet. He handed it to me straight away when he realized what it was.”

James looks at him expectantly. Daniel rises from his chair. He takes a letter from his pocket - and then, unexpectedly, he takes a step toward Thomas, who tenses.

“Thomas,” Daniel says, a look of surprise flashing across his face. He stops, and stares at Thomas for a moment. Behind Thomas, James rises - and Thomas knows that he does not have a sword at his belt, not anymore, but his hand is straying in that direction all the same, Thomas can see James’ sleeve out of the corner of his eye.

“Am I truly so terrifying?” Daniel asks after a moment, and Thomas takes a deep breath.

Daniel is a reminder of another life, and not all of that other life was bad. It is a startling reminder - one, Thomas thinks, that he has perhaps needed for some time. He is an echo - not like James, who had been so changed as to fit right into the life that Thomas’ father had forcibly made for him all those years ago. No. Daniel is standing in front of him, and he is still Thomas’ brother. He is here - that life that has been just beyond his grasp these many years has turned up, here and -

It’s calling him, this time. His long ordeal is over. It has been for years.

“No,” Thomas manages to say, somehow. “No, you’re not. James - please. It’s alright.” He motions Daniel forward, and takes the letter from his hand - which is shaking, Thomas realizes suddenly, and that is the moment that Daniel crashes to his knees.

“You’re here,” he says, the letter still gripped in his hand. “You’re actually here - God, I’m so sorry, Thomas, I didn’t know - nobody would tell me anything until - until -”

He stops, seemingly lost for words, and then, silently, he reaches up and touches Thomas’ hand where it holds the letter.

“Where have you been?” he asks, and Thomas bows his head.

“How is David?” he asks, and Daniel shakes his head.

“It’s not important,” he answers. “Thomas - where have you _-_?”

“He was slaving away at a plantation your foul fuck of a father _sold him_ _to_ eight years ago,” James snaps, and Thomas turns his head toward his husband.

“That isn’t Daniel’s fault,” he chides gently, and James meets his gaze squarely.

“You’ll forgive me if I find that remarkably hard to credit,” he answers. “Eight years, Thomas, and until I turned up, did any of them even look for you? Well, did you?”

This he directs at Daniel. To Thomas’ surprise, Daniel’s hold on his hand does not loosen. His younger brother straightens, and meets James’ gaze, and does not stand.

“There were efforts made,” Daniel answers quietly. “Mother was in bits for years, her grace the Duchess of Hamilton Cousin Anne got involved -”

“And you?” Thomas asks quietly.

He needs the answer to this. He’s not sure why, truly, he’s not sure why he has to press the issue but - well. Maybe that too is part of becoming who he has not been for the past twelve years. The man he was in London would have asked, too and -

It’s odd, he thinks, but somehow he had never imagined what must have occurred, that December night so long ago. Never thought -

What _had_ happened, after they’d taken him from his home, beaten him, stolen him -

What had happened after? What - what had become of him? Of his life?

Daniel raises his head to meet Thomas’ eyes.

“There’s a reason the letter was sent to me,” he answers quietly. “I looked - I never stopped looking. Even what that search led me to Bethlem’s graves for suicides.”

It is - very, very hard, Thomas discovers, not to allow his hand to clench around his brother’s, or to allow his breath to hitch. In the end, he winds up leaning forward, putting his head nearly between his knees, and he is not quite sure when he will be able to breathe normally again, but he trusts it will be soon. For now, though, his breathing is a bit ragged with unshed tears, and he only hopes that his eyes will not betray him further than they have done already and drip salt water onto Daniel’s hand.

“Thank you, for looking,” Thomas murmurs eventually, and feels his brother’s hand leave his own. In its place, a hand is placed on his shoulder somewhat tentatively, and then is withdrawn, as Daniel stands - and takes the letter with him as he walks toward James instead.

“Daniel,” Thomas says, suddenly recalling something resembling manners. “This is far from the time for introductions, but the man currently asking all the questions is -”

“Lieutenant McGraw.” Daniel’s voice is still quiet, but firm. “This letter is for you as much as it is my brother. And for what it’s worth - I looked for you too. There was no trace of you or Miranda.”

There is an odd silence in the kitchen - a holding of everyone’s breath, almost, and then James swallows hard, and relaxes in his chair.

“Miranda is gone,” he says, and Daniel flinches as if struck. “So if you’re still looking for her, you can stop searching. And I don’t know who David is but -”

“My oldest brother,” Thomas answers, and stands. “Daniel - about myself and James -”

“There’s no need,” Daniel answers. “I knew, when Father locked you away. I -” He swallows hard. “Remind me to introduce you to Aaron,” he says finally. Thomas stares - and Daniel gives him a crooked sort of smile.

“I’d meant to tell you,” he says finally, and then Thomas laughs - laughs long, and hard, and loudly, and catches his brother in a one-armed hug that has been over ten years in coming and then turns to James, still smiling, still laughing. They’re going to be alright, he thinks, elated - he has a family again, albeit a small one, and they are going to be fine.

James is still holding the letter, and it falls from his nerveless fingers a second later.

“We’ve been recognized,” he says in a numb tone. “Someone’s spotted me. And Charles Vane is alive.”

********************************

“This could prove to be a trap,” James says later. “In all likelihood it _is_ a trap.”

Thomas shifts on the bed. They’ve retreated to their bedroom - sent Daniel on his way with a hug from Thomas and a promise to call on him and his husband Aaron as soon as they can, and now Thomas is sitting on their bed, allowing his fingers to trace over the embroidery on their coverlet. James sits next to him - and Thomas wonders briefly how James feels now about having allowed Thomas out of the house that morning. He shelves the thought firmly - he was not _allowed_ to leave, he chose to do so, and now he and James have another decision to make.

“It’s a damn clumsy one if so,” Thomas points out. “A dead man is alive again and in a great deal of trouble, go and find him, signed Mr. A. Nonymous, Esquire?”

James snorts - he can’t help it, and Thomas’ mouth curls up at the corner in a smile at having made him do something other than worry, even if only for a moment.

“Perhaps they imagine I’ll be curious enough or infuriated enough to fall for it,” James answers. “Whoever they are.” He runs a hand over his hair, and lets it fall back into his lap. “I’m almost inclined to let them do it,” he confesses. He catches Thomas’ gaze.

“I owe Charles my life twice over,” he says quietly. “I don’t know where I’d be right now if he hadn’t intervened in Charlestown, but I don’t think it would be here. When they hanged him I -” He stops.

Thomas nods thoughtfully.

“I should thank him,” he agrees, “for rescuing you from Peter. If he lives.”

“ _If_ he lives,” James echoes. “It’s a large risk to take.”

Thomas nods again.

“It’s not an entirely far-fetched notion,” he points out gently after a few seconds of silence. “It was true once.”

“You hadn’t been hanged in front of a hundred witnesses,” James answers dryly. “Charles was. The only similarity between you is that you both forbade anyone to do anything to save you.”

“You didn’t precisely take that request willingly, as I recall it,” Thomas answers. James turns toward him, his gaze incredulous.

“How the hell could I have?” he asks. “You were gone. I came back to that house, found you stolen from it, from us, and the only thing that kept me from charging after you - the only person who could have -”

“Was Miranda,” Thomas finishes calmly. “You’ve told me that Billy Bones was there at Captain Vane’s execution. You’ve also told me that Billy admired Vane to a degree - listened to him, sometimes, when all other reason fell on deaf ears. How likely, do you imagine, is it that Billy actually allowed Vane to die, knowing that eventually he would need a trick up his sleeve if he wanted to challenge you and survive?”

He does not often cut across James’ sentences this way. It’s a terrible discussion tactic - one he’d used back in London, true, but only at extremity, and yet -

He’s right, and he knows it, and it has been so long since he could hear his old self in his own voice, certain and hopeful and _convincing_. He’s missed it - almost as much as he has missed knowing what he wants his next course of action to be. And he does now - he knows.

The question is whether he can give voice to it or not. He thinks he can. He thinks he must - or give up all pretense at being the man James spent ten years fighting for.

(He can barely manage to tell James in a firm tone that he is going to take a walk into town - how is he going to do this?)

James is looking at him now, assessing. He’s caught on - he always did understand what Thomas was saying before almost anyone else.  It’s comforting - and in this case, just a little bit terrifying.

“You want me to go and find out what this is about,” he states after a moment, and Thomas sits up straighter. He clasps one knee with his hands, and takes a deep breath.

“I want _us_ to go and see, yes,” he answers at last, his voice firm. “The letter was delivered to Daniel’s home, or damned near. Someone delivered it, knowing it would make its way to Daniel and thence to us. Somehow I very much doubt they meant entirely well and I’ve no desire to wait for them to turn up on our doorstep when they realize that Daniel’s made contact.”

 _There,_ he thinks. _It’s out._ He’s said what he wants. He’s told James.

He is not certain why his breath is coming a bit short, or why he is suddenly holding onto his own knee tighter than he needs to. It’s not as if - James won’t -

There is silence for a moment, and then James’ hand drifts toward Thomas’s. He gently takes hold of it - squeezes it equally gently, and asks,

“You want to come along?”

There is no judgment in James’ voice. There is no anger - none, even though Thomas has just said that he wants to leave this place that James has made into a comfortable home for them both. It’s…

This is not, Thomas finally and fully realizes, the plantation. This is not Bethlem - this is not some kind of supposedly benevolent slavery and never has been and never will be, and one day, perhaps, he will finally finish plumbing the depths of his anger that any part of his consciousness ever could have wondered otherwise. He can feel the anger rise, and fall, and he breathes through it. It is alright - he is allowed to be angry about this. He is angry -

And he loves James so completely right now that he might just burst from it.

“Yes,” he confirms, the word tumbling from him in a relieved rush. “Yes, I want to be part of this.”

James squeezes his hand again, and kisses his temple, and then nods.

“Alright,” he says, and that is that. “We’ll spread it about that we’re going back to England for a few months to visit family.”

One day, Thomas thinks - one day. One day he is going to find a way to tell James just how much he loves him for this. One day. For right now though - he is going to make love to his husband, the way that James likes.

They’re going to be alright.

...

“We might find fire and death,” James cautions later - much later.

He is still naked, and Thomas is trailing a finger up his torso, and his industrious mind is still working. It’s a wonder, truly.

Thomas will work on convincing James to relax again in a moment. For now - for now he nods, and gestures for James to continue. Later. Later he will indulge his urge to kiss the scar that streaks its way across James’ chest again and then tweak the perfect, pink nipple so close to his wandering fingers. Later.

James seems to catch onto the pattern of his thoughts, because he pulls the sheet further over himself and sits up a bit.

“If Charles is alive - if he’s still the man I knew, then he’ll be at the heart of whatever battle is still being waged in that corner of the world. He simply hasn’t got it in him to give up on a fight.” His voice is serious. “We could be stepping right back into the war, Thomas.”

James looks tired, Thomas thinks. The worry is creeping in around the edges again - small lines forming on James’ furrowed brow again, and Thomas should want to kiss those away. He should simply reassure James that he has no intention of becoming a fighter - of putting them both in danger again, and truly, he does not want James to face another battlefield. He does not -

But the more Thomas hears of this Charles Vane, the more he thinks that he will like the man. He wonders if James understands just how much Thomas has been simmering with the same anger that seems to possess Vane all these years. If James understands how very helpless Thomas has been -

If there is any avoiding the simple fact that Thomas also wants some measure of vengeance for the wrongs done to them both. He fears there is not.

“James,” he starts to say, “I know what it is you fear. I know - this is not wise, precisely, but -”

He stops, and James simply looks at him. His mouth is tight, and for a moment Thomas fears -

Nothing. James is not angry. James would never be angry. He closes his eyes, tired as much by the rising of this particular demon as by anything else, and then leans forward, allowing his head to dip forward.

“Please tell me that you understand why I need this,” he begs, and James shifts closer.

“I think,” he answers slowly, “that both of us needed the reminder that Daniel’s presence has provided.” _I understand,_ he does not say - does not need to say. _I understand, because I killed your father. I understand because Peter is dead, and because Silver is still alive. I understand._

Thomas takes a deep breath, and feels relief flood through him.

“We did,” he agrees, voice shaking just a little. “I want our life back - not some semblance of that life where we hide, and don’t attract attention to ourselves. We’re not dead, we’re not gone, and we shouldn’t have to - to hide like - like _rats,_ like human _debris_. We’re not -” He sinks back down onto the covers, and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I need - god, James, I want to feel as though I am myself again and I’m not, not yet. I don’t know how I can ever achieve that if we don’t go, now. I can’t let this pass me by. I can’t.”

James rises to one elbow.

“We won’t,” he answers. He kisses Thomas’ forehead, and then pulls back, frown of worry turning to one of consideration. “How do you think Daniel would feel about looking after the house?”

**Chapter Five:**

He’s going to be alright, James thinks as gunfire sounds on the deck around him. He’s going to be alright, because Thomas needs him to be alright, and because this fight is nearly over and because -

Because there is someone aboard who needs their aid, and because he has just spotted the thing that will win them this battle, provided he can get to it.

“Thomas!” he shouts. “Going aft - buy me a moment!”

Thomas shouts something incomprehensible, and James begins to fight his way toward the stern, and the rudder cable, and the end of this bloody, exhilarating, highly necessary and yet infuriating fight.

If they can’t run, then they are trapped with the pirates. He is counting on the captain to have half an ounce of sense - to see that they cannot take back their own ship, let alone board the one that James and Thomas commandeered so recently. The rudder cable snaps under two strong blows from James’ sword.

Ten minutes later, the fighting is done, and Thomas sinks down to sit on a barrel and watch the aftermath. He is covered in blood and the black residue of gunpowder, as is James, and the smell on deck is truly enough to turn even the strongest stomachs - and yet they are both alive, and James strides toward Thomas, a broad smile on his face that he has tried to wipe away already without success. They’ve won - the ship is theirs, and Christ - James has forgotten precisely how damn _good_ the aftermath of a well-fought battle has always felt. Thomas allows himself to be swept up in his husband’s embrace, and grins as well, bright and brilliant.

“Next orders, Captain McGraw?” he asks, breathless. He doesn’t wait for an answer - instead, he drops the pistol he’s been holding onto the deck and hugs James, still elated, then pulls back.

“We did it,” James tells him, the exhilaration of the battle still ringing in his voice. “We’ve done it.” He laughs, and then looks around the deck.

“Where’s the captain?” he asks, and Thomas points toward the red-faced man currently being restrained near the quarterdeck.

“Still alive,” Thomas answers.

“Good,” James answers. He looks around him. The ship is secured. The crew are moving about their duties now that the fighting is over. Their quartermaster, Kenning, gives James a nod, and then turns back to bellow orders at the men. There is only one thing missing from this scene-

Until the hatch opens. Until slowly, disbelievingly, the woman ascending the stairs locks eyes with James, eyes widening with shock. She takes a step forward - another -

“Captain Flint?” Madi asks, and James can feel his heart leap in his chest.

“I -” he starts - and then Madi is rushing forward, flinging herself at him, and James wonders silently how in the world she has recognized him, how he keeps being recognized, even as he holds tight to her as well. There is gunpowder on his shirt, he thinks distantly - gunpowder and blood and she’s likely going to regret burying her face in his shoulder this way later. It doesn’t matter. She is here, and glad to see him, and that means the world.

“You’re alive,” she says at last. She pulls back and looks him up and down. “You are well. I did not dare to hope - when I saw the plantation -”

Something in James’ chest does an odd little flip, and he stares at Madi, speechless.

“James,” Thomas reminds him softly after a moment.

“You saw the plantation?” James chokes, and Madi nods. Just that - just a small gesture -

“You came,” James repeats. He cannot quite wrap his mind around the notion and yet -

No wonder someone recognized him in Philadelphia, he thinks dimly. Madi had likely put the word about herself that James had gone missing. She’d been searching for him.

No one has been out to get them. No one from his past - no one from Thomas’s past. It’s a blessed relief. They are still safe. They have both been missed by the ones they left behind. And speaking of the ones they left behind - he looks around. There is no sign of Charles, and though he is most glad to see Madi, he had rather hoped to find another face among those released from the hold as well.

“A letter was delivered to us,” he starts to say. “It mentioned Charles -”

Madi’s eyes widen.

“You have not found him?” she asks. “He was in the hold with me - they were taking us to Philadelphia -”

“Easy, Princess.”

The words come from among the crowd gathering around them. James turns - and Charles grins weakly at him, and steps out from the shadows to join them.

“You still owe me one,” Charles says, and James -

He wants the Walrus crew back, James thinks for the first time in his life. He wants them back so that they can properly appreciate the reappearance of the martyred legend walking in their midst. It’s nothing short of a damned miracle.

He wonders suddenly if Eleanor had anything to do with it. He wonders how he is going to tell Charles what has become of her, if he even has to, if Madi has not told him already -

He needs to greet his friend first and worry about all of that later.

“I ought to wring your damn neck,” he says, voice cracking a little, and then opens his arms and catches the younger man in a back-slapping, relieved hug, and whatever might happen from here on out -

James has not failed someone. Charles is safe, and Madi is safe, and Thomas is here, and the only thing that could make this day more perfect would be if Miranda were here as well. He pulls away from Charles, and looks him up and down.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Better now that we’re out of that stinking hold,” Charles answers. “I didn’t think to find you here. You look -”

He stops, hesitates for a moment, and then, more quietly admits,

“Better. Didn’t think I’d be saying that, either. Glad to see it.”

“James - I don’t mean to rush you but I think we need to leave,” Thomas says, and James turns toward him.

He had not expected to be missed, not by anyone, and he has not until now appreciated just how Thomas must have felt when James reappeared, there to release him from hell. It’s….

Christ, it is so very long past the time that they both should have rejoined the world. He can see that now. Thomas was right - they’ve both been hiding. He looks to his husband, and he can admit it - it feels right and good to have Thomas here with him. If he is going to do this though - if they are all going to do this - then he must start it out right, the way that Thomas deserves. The way they both do.

“Thomas,” he says hoarsely, “I’ve not done this in a long time, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten half your titles. I’d like to introduce you -”

Thomas looks startled for a moment, and then he looks to Madi, and to Charles, and smiles.

“My name is Thomas Hamilton,” he says. “I’m told you might be interested in a revolution.”

Yes, James thinks - he is going to be alright, and so is Thomas. They’re all going to be just fine.  
  



End file.
